


nightlight in yer dark

by foxkillskat



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Massage, Post-Time Skip, SakuAtsu, no beta we die like daichi, omi is the best nightlight, sakuatsu best friends agenda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxkillskat/pseuds/foxkillskat
Summary: Miya Atsumu doesn’t ask why Sakusa Kiyoomi shows up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, time after time.He doesn’t need to know.All he has to do is let him in.  All he has to do is find a way to make him stay.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 23
Kudos: 265





	nightlight in yer dark

**Author's Note:**

> hey yall, yer (least) fave redneck, foxkillskat here droppin sleepy crumbs again
> 
> whatever or whoever yer nightlight is, hold tight to em and dont let em go ☺️
> 
> enjoy the mess!!

Sakusa Kiyoomi appears out of nowhere. No message, no call, no warning of any kind. He simply shows up in the dark, eyelids heavy and shoulders tense, his curls wild from hours spent tossing and turning, a nightmare in the flesh. 

And Miya Atsumu might as well be dreaming. 

He doesn’t ask why Kiyoomi is here, what he’s doing knocking on the door at two in the morning, shifting from foot to foot on the mat. Atsumu doesn’t need to know. All he has to do is let him in.

“Tea?” Atsumu asks, voice weighted with sleep. 

Kiyoomi nods while he takes off his shoes.

“Ya gotta stop showin’ up like this, ya know?” Atsumu mumbles as he pads into his kitchen and shuffles through the tea cabinet. “Yer such a mess.”

There’s no reaction. 

Atsumu turns around to find he’s talking to thin air. With a heavy sigh, he flips on the kettle. By now he should be used to how Kiyoomi comes and goes, but he still finds himself frowning up until the tea is ready. He swallows it down and carries the cups through the dark hall to his bedroom, fingertips tight on their rims.

The warm glow of the nightlight reveals Kiyoomi already in bed, lying with his stomach to the sheets and his shirt crumpled on the floor.

“What am I gonna do with ya, Omi-kun?” Atsumu sets the cups on the nightstand, trading them for the already-wrinkled shirt. 

Dark eyes follow him while he shakes it out and folds it neatly, impatient in their stare. Atsumu keeps them waiting, drags this out as he tugs off his own shirt and does the same.

“Yer such a mess,” he repeats half-heartedly.

There’s a muffled noise, a word or two or three lost to the thick blankets. Atsumu doesn’t ask what Kiyoomi said. He doesn’t need to know. All he has to do is climb onto Kiyoomi’s back, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips, and dig his fingers into those rigid shoulders.

With the weight of himself channeled through thumbs, he works in carefully composed circles. Strong and slow, he targets all the spots which pull noises from deep within Kiyoomi. These sounds sit on the edge of obscene, a single sliver away from slipping in. As always, Atsumu tries his hardest to make Kiyoomi cross that line, and, as always, he fails. Nonetheless, they feed him and fill him until work feels like pleasure.

The tea has grown cold by the time he’s untied every last one of Kiyoomi’s knots, but that doesn’t stop Atsumu from bending over backwards to grab the cups, shifting enough to allow Kiyoomi to his elbows before delivering one right into his waiting hands.

“Herbal?” Kiyoomi peers over his shoulder, eyebrow cocked high.

“Ya ever think maybe the reason ya can’t sleep is ‘cause ya drink all that caffeine?” Atsumu takes a spiteful sip. “‘Cause I sure do.”

Kiyoomi looks back into his cup. “Sorry for waking you.”

“No, yer not.” Atsumu’s chuckle sends his tea sloshing and he grabs Kiyoomi’s side with one hand to steady himself. “If ya were, you wouldn’t keep doin’ this.”

Stabilized, he doesn’t let go — he couldn’t even if he wanted to. Not when Kiyoomi’s body fits so perfectly in his hand, thumb pressed to the dimple on his lower back and fingers curled around the sharp edge of his hip. Atsumu wants to hold on to this more than anything.

“I’ll stop then.” Kiyoomi lowers himself to slurp up some tea.

Atsumu bites his tongue to keep from yelling no.

“I didn’t mean it like that” —his thumb slides back and forth, dips in and out of that dimple, sore and content— “yer always welcome here. You know that.” 

Kiyoomi is quiet.

“Come home with me next time,” Atsumu adds, and even as he says it, he knows it won’t happen. 

Before midnight, Kiyoomi is a different person, a distanced person. In the light of day, he’s someone who would barely accept a pat on the back, let alone allow Atsumu to straddle him and run fingers up and down the curve of his spine. 

It’s not as if they aren’t close, aren’t friends — the opposite and the combination, actually. Over the last year, they transitioned from only seeing each other at practice and games to arriving and leaving together. At this point, Atsumu can’t remember a single day off not spent with Kiyoomi. Running the track at the nearby park, sharing a basket as they peruse the aisles of the grocery store, sitting around on each other’s kitchen counters and couches and dining room chairs while they talk and laugh and eat. Being by Kiyoomi’s side is second nature.

But no matter how close they are, there’s always that daytime distance, the space between them where Atsumu goes home to his bed and Kiyoomi the same. They don’t breach this. Ever. 

Until the hour of midnight passes.

Nights like these are rare, and Atsumu memorizes each one, maps out the pattern of all the things he’s tried and failed. Like the very first time, Kiyoomi shows up the same: quiet and tired and tense. He never had to ask for Atsumu’s touch, never had to utter a single word of pleading. Atsumu knew. He knew he had to bury himself in Kiyoomi in order to dig out whatever dark thing took root. 

Like the very first time, he does the dirty work and cleans up the mess, and, like the very first time, Kiyoomi leaves the moment their cups are empty. Once, Atsumu tried offering a refill. Then, he tried insisting. After that, he came right out and asked, pleaded for Kiyoomi to stay in his sheets, to sleep by his side for what little was left of the night. 

Who knew a simple no could cut so sharply, carve a piece right out of his heart? Atsumu still feels its absence like a black hole.

Last time, Atsumu simply didn’t finish his tea; he left that final centimeter, hoping it would keep Kiyoomi. And it did for a little while, but, as always, Kiyoomi figured him out. Before long he was climbing out of bed, padding down the hall to slip on shoes and shut the door, leaving Atsumu behind with nothing but a centimeter of bitter green. The rest of his Sencha went in the bin the very next morning.

This time, he downs the heady herbal tea and wishes for that bright green. Some caffeine might help him formulate a new plan. 

Not that it would work. Not that it could keep him.

Kiyoomi comes and goes, a shadow cast by Atsumu’s nightlight, an apparition he’ll never be able to hold on to. Even now the shapes of them blend into the wall, flickering and fading into the black.

Atsumu blinks in the sudden dark.

“Atsumu?”

His grip on Kiyoomi tightens and he loses his empty cup to the blankets.

“Did you turn that off?”

“No.” He can’t see Kiyoomi, but he can feel him, feel the way his muscles shift and his spine curves as he twists and turns.

“It must have died,” Kiyoomi whispers.

Why is he whispering?

Atsumu doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like the dark unless he’s closing his eyes and choosing it for himself. Dark like this is different, heavy. It sits on him like he sits atop Kiyoomi, weighs on his back until he’s bending beneath it, pressing himself into Kiyoomi the same.

“Stop,” Kiyoomi hisses, “you’re making my tea spill.”

Atsumu doesn’t stop — he couldn’t even if he wanted to. Not when Kiyoomi’s body fits so perfectly with his, stalls him from snapping, keeps him from sinking into the lonely black. Atsumu wants to stay like this more than anything.

“Great” —Kiyoomi jerks back into him— “there’s tea in your bed now. Get off me already.”

“No,” Atsumu tries again. “Please don’t go.”

“I’m not leaving,” Kiyoomi grumbles. “Let me get a towel.”

“Yes, ya are.” Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut, pretending he has a choice. “If I let go, yer gonna leave.”

Without warning, Kiyoomi is rolling beneath him, struggling to break free of his hold. Like two animals tussling, their legs are kicking, arms pushing, throats growling in the dark. Kiyoomi is strong — they both are. But Atsumu has one true advantage in this fight.

Pure desperation. 

This alone is enough to get Kiyoomi on his back, arms pinned high above his head. Atsumu can’t see his face; he can’t see anything. He doesn’t need to. All he has to do is imagine that halo of curls, those eyes glinting like they always do with competition, those lips settling into a pout like they always do when Atsumu wins.

Kiyoomi is panting beneath him. Atsumu can feel it, hear it, and whenever a breath leaves his lungs, Atsmu pulls it right into his own.

“What is this?” Kiyoomi’s words come out staggered and raspy. “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” Atsumu admits. The adrenaline is gone, taking with it any coherent confidence and leaving him all too aware of that hole in his heart, all too sensitive to the pressing dark.

Atsumu doesn’t like this. His hands slide up to Kiyoomi’s wrists and it feels nothing short of wrong. If this is what it means to hold Kiyoomi, he doesn’t want it. 

“Why do ya do this to me?” he cries out. “Why do ya show up like this only to leave?”

“Because I—” Kiyoomi’s voice trails off.

Atsumu starts to let go.

“I’m scared.” 

The words stop him.

He doesn’t ask what Kiyoomi means. He knows.

Gently, Atsumu lifts those wrists up off the bed. Slowly, he brings those hands to him. Carefully, he presses those fingers to his hips.

“Ya don’t need to be afraid, Omi-kun.” He’s whispering now. “I’m right here.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Kiyoomi whispers back. “I can’t lose you.”

“Then stay,” Atsumu pleads, “all ya have to do is stay. See this through.”

Kiyoomi is quiet and still for a moment. A long moment. Long enough that it leaves Atsumu needing to know if he’s the only thing holding them together. He releases those wrists.

And Kiyoomi holds on. 

“How do I know you won’t leave?” Kiyoomi’s fingers tighten with each word.

Atsumu doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He doesn’t need to. All he has to do is sink into Kiyoomi, push away the damp blankets and discarded cups and everything else to spread out, to cover every centimeter of him.

Skin to skin, Atsumu can feel their glow building, illuminating that black hole from within. 

This is what it means to hold Kiyoomi. 

“I would never leave.” Atsumu would never want to. “I need you — yer my nightlight.”

“And you’re mine,” Kiyoomi whispers back, bright.

His arms find their way around Atsumu, pushing back the dark, banishing it for good.

This is what it means to be held by Kiyoomi.

And Atsumu might as well be dreaming.


End file.
